


Expect The Unexpected

by swordznsorcery



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Gen, shooty things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 19:58:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7188014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swordznsorcery/pseuds/swordznsorcery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doctor Who 50th Anniversary fic. Prompt: Any characters who appeared in 1972.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Expect The Unexpected

Expect The Unexpected

 

In the darkness it stirred. Broken, forgotten, torn to ruins, it had lain undisturbed for so long, and in all that time it had not stopped thinking. Planning. Scrabbling occasionally for odds and ends, dreaming of mobility, conquest, destruction. In the darkness it learned. Adapted, developed. Ignored, it fought its way back to strength. 

And then, one day, suddenly there was light. 

**********

It scarcely seemed fair that it could be morning again already. The moon still lurked high above, and the sun was making only the most cursory of efforts to poke its head above the horizon, but already the sounds of a new day echoed around the base. Sergeant Benton tramped down the well-worn path to the Brigadier's office, shooting the moon a passing scowl along the way. It had no right to look so damned chirpy. It hung above him, unbowed, cocking a snook at the sluggish sun. Benton knew exactly how the sun felt. 

"You look like hell," said the duty sergeant cheerily, as Benton pushed open the door of the main building. He was a good man, short and solid, and the pair of them had been friends for years. That didn't spare him the twin of the glare that Benton had just thrown at the moon. "Out late again were we?" 

"Clean up detail." Benton stole a mouthful of the sergeant's powerful coffee, and half wished for something stronger. "Me, Captain Yates, a butterfly net, and twenty-seven alien frog... _things_." His companion responded with a snort of laughter, and Benton stole another mouthful of coffee in revenge. "You try it. Hunting tiny black frogs in the middle of the night, with the moon behind a cloud half the time. I was still chasing the little blighters a few hours ago." 

"At least this time you weren't hunting things that shoot back," pointed out the sergeant. He nodded towards the Brigadier's office. "Might not be so lucky this time though. Everybody's on the move. There's enough trucks and men out back to invade a small country. Any idea what's going on?" 

"No." Benton didn't bother to hide his yawn. "I hope it's worthwhile though. I'm owed a good dozen hours kip in back pay. Alright to go on in?" 

"Yeah. The old man said to send you in when you arrived. And if it's any consolation, Yates is in there with him, so you're not the only one missing his beauty sleep." 

"Thanks. I think." Taking a moment to straighten his uniform, and to attempt to force the fog from his eyes, Benton rapped smartly on the door. The Brigadier's voice called to him to enter, and he went on in. Inside that neat, orderly room, with his ramrod straight commander in chief, his shoulders lost their tired slouch in an instant. The Brigadier seemed to have that effect on everyone. 

"Ah, Benton." Behind his desk, swagger stick tucked beneath an arm, the Brigadier was studying a map. He was on his feet, and he was wearing his cap, which suggested that he was in a hurry to leave. "All a bit of a rush this morning. We got a call from the regular army saying that there were some very unusual lights in the sky during the night. The police received a number of calls from members of the public as well, so we're heading out to check up on it. Might be nothing, but the Doctor seems interested." 

"Very good sir." Benton was already running over the usual procedures in his mind, hoping that there would be enough time to check up the equipment. The trucks were kept loaded, under his supervision, but he always liked to be sure of such things. "Do we know anything else?" 

"No specifics, just these reports of lights. I'm going prepared, just to be on the safe side. No sense in going out there and not checking the area properly. Besides, it's all good practice for the men." 

"It could take a couple of days to do a thorough search," observed Mike Yates, who was looking at a map on the desk. Benton could see a red circle from where he was standing, presumably the area within which the lights had been visible. Given the scale, it did look rather large. He stole a look at Yates as well, taking some small comfort from the shadows beneath the captain's eyes. Yates looked as smartly turned out as ever, his uniform nearly as immaculate as the Brigadier's, but Benton could recognise the mark of the fellow sleep deprived. Anywhere else on the base they might have offered each other some sympathy. 

"With enough men I think I can do it faster than that. It'll be good training." The Brigadier looked from one to the other of them, not without some small measure of kindness. "You two will be staying here of course." 

"Staying here?" There was an unmistakable protest in the captain's voice; Yates always hated to be left out of anything. In less of a position to complain, the sergeant nonetheless gave a start. It wasn't like the Brigadier to leave both of them behind. The older man shot them a sharp look, and tapped the search area with his swagger stick. 

"Hours of hard searching, through some very mixed terrain, when the pair of you were up all night doing something similar? We have no idea what we're looking for. It might be nothing, it might be giant monsters, or it might be something as small as those creatures that you were after last night. The point is, I need a squad of men who are wide awake and well rested. Besides, there's plenty that you can be doing here." 

"Paperwork," muttered Yates, barely audibly. The Brigadier, needless to say, heard him clearly. 

"It wouldn't do either of you any harm," he said, a faint trace of humour in his voice. "Reports don't file themselves, Captain Yates. But no. You know of course that I've ordered Section 56 to be cleared out. Our boffins have gone over everything, so we've learnt whatever we're likely to, and I don't intend to leave anything lying about where it might get stolen. The whole lot is to be completely destroyed. I had half a mind to put you both on the detail anyway. It's important work, and I don't want anything left over when you've finished, understood?" 

"Yes sir." Yates didn't sound happy. Benton felt much the same. Their place was with the rest of UNIT; with the Brigadier, sharing whatever threats he might be facing. Nevertheless, he made no sound. He was a sergeant. It was the captain's prerogative to grumble. Lethbridge-Stewart did not back down. 

"I wouldn't trust just anybody with this." For a moment the sharp, dark eyes seemed to soften a little – or perhaps that was just Benton's imagination. "Section 56 contains any amount of alien debris. Some of it we've never been able to identify, and what we have isn't too pretty. I have no desire to see any of it fall into enemy hands; or Torchwood's either, for that matter." Whatever softening there might have been, in eyes or in tone, vanished as the Brigadier snapped back into his familiar, ramrod straight stance. "Carry on, Captain Yates." Snapping to full attention, Benton saluted until the Brigadier had left the room, then sighed and looked over at Yates. He was a little wary. The young captain was usually one of the more easy-going officers, and they had a good working relationship that was as close to friendship as a captain and a sergeant could get – but Yates also had a temper. Being left behind by the Brigadier was just the sort of thing likely to trigger it. 

"Garbage disposal," said the captain morosely. The fact that he was presumably as tired as Benton, and therefore just as unfit for a prolonged search operation, likely meant as little to him as it did to the sergeant. He sighed. "I suppose we'd better get to it. Might even be able to catch up on some sleep afterwards." 

"Yes sir." Benton wasn't able to summon up any enthusiasm either, no matter how important the task. Outside they heard the sharp click of a car door, as the Brigadier, presumably with the Doctor and Jo alongside, got into a waiting vehicle. Moments later there was the throaty roar of an engine as the car pulled away. It was not long before the first truck followed suit. Mind full of lists of vital equipment, Benton could not help but wonder who was doing his job, and making sure that everything was where it was supposed to be. 

By the time they got outside the sun was a little higher, its glow lighting up much of the eastern horizon. It had put the moon in its place at least, leaving it rather less full of itself than when Benton had first got up. There was still a greyness to the day though, a chill feeling from an Earth not yet warmed enough to be properly awake. It turned the sergeant's thoughts to breakfast; to strong army tea, with toast fresh and hot from the canteen. Yates, however, clearly had other ideas. He was already striding away in the direction of Section 56, and Benton had little choice but to follow. Officers. They were all the same. All business, and hardly a thought for toast. It was almost as though they were a different species. 

Section 56 was a large building, formerly a stable block, back when UNIT HQ had been an old manor house. The previous residents had knocked down a few interconnecting walls, creating a long, low storeroom, solid and secure, which the Brigadier had appropriated for collected alien technology. It was a grandiose term for what was, for the most part, little more than rubbish. Broken parts of crashed spaceships, destroyed by impact; strange pieces of metal or plastic that UNIT's scientific department had never been able to identify; weapons that had taught them nothing, even after the best minds that UNIT had to offer had studied them minutely. The Doctor always insisted that it was because they had not yet learnt enough to understand such advanced equipment. Benton privately suspected that their resident Time Lord was sabotaging a lot of it, to be sure that the humans could learn nothing. It certainly wouldn't have been at all unlike the Doctor. 

For once, however, the contents of Section 56 were not locked away. Instead, the familiar, burly guards had flung the stable doors open wide, and were carrying the motley collection of flotsam and jetsam into what had once been a sizeable horse yard. There was large, gaping pit, dug a day or two earlier by a gargantuan earthmover, into which they were throwing the rubbish, and even from a distance Benton could feel a warmth in the air. There was a shimmering heat haze above the pit, and as he drew closer, he saw a red-white gleam in the depths. There should be little enough that would survive a furnace like that. 

"Captain Yates." Two men, carrying a heavy piece of machinery between them, snapped to a sort of attention. Yates acknowledged them with a nod, and they hurried on. Benton followed, naturally cautious as he reached the edge of the pit. It wasn't especially deep, but anybody who fell into it had little chance of making it out again. He whistled faintly. 

"What did you build that fire with? Feels hot enough to melt steel." 

"Not exactly sure, Sarge." The taller of the two men peered dubiously into the pit, before he and his companion hurled their piece of alien debris into it. "The Doctor gave us some sort of chemical. Said it ought to get the job done, provided the rain holds off." There was a hungry crackle from beneath them, and almost immediately the latest chunk of detritus began to glow. "Quite the monster, isn't it. He was pretty anxious to see this lot destroyed." 

"Yeah." The second man made no effort to hide a smirk. "I felt quite sorry for the Brig. He practically got his head chewed off for letting it all hang around as long as it has." 

"Never you mind about that," snapped Benton, with rather more force than he had intended. Chastened, the two men scurried off. Drawing up alongside the sergeant, Yates gave a low laugh. 

"Fierce when you've missed breakfast, aren't you Benton." 

"Sorry sir." 

"Don't apologise." Peering over the edge, Yates gazed down at the glowing, twisting jumble beneath him. "Still, the Doc's got a point. There's some nasty stuff in this lot. I'm not sure I like the idea of our boys learning how it works any more than he does. Where's the sense in defending the Earth from aliens if we're just going to blow it up ourselves?" 

"I don't know," was all that Benton could think to say in answer to that. Yates smiled. 

"Too early in the day for philosophy? Go on, go and get yourself something to eat. Doesn't really need the two of us here until it's time to go through the ashes." 

"Yes sir." Benton brightened immediately. Breakfast was the best idea that he had heard all morning. Away from the pale sun, and under the relentless glare of the canteen's lighting, his brain's foggy rebellion against the earliness of the hour seemed less acute. The whole base was quiet, uncommonly empty due to the Brigadier's venture, and in the rare silence he allowed himself time to relax, and let the barrage of grease and sugar do its work. He even thought to bring a sandwich and some coffee back for Yates, although he had trouble imagining the fastidious young officer being the bacon sandwich type. 

"Ah, Benton." Yates was prowling back and forth between the storeroom and the pit, sharp eyes watching all. He accepted the sandwich and the coffee with what looked to the sergeant to be equal parts gratitude and alarm. "Feeling a little more human?" 

"A little, sir." Benton stepped back to allow a pair of soldiers to walk by, and almost smiled. "Quite the trip down memory lane, isn't it. Looked like Sea Devil guns there, and isn't that part of that Axon ship?" 

"Yes. There were a few bits of Dalek casing just after you left, and what I think was part of a Cyberman respiratory unit." Yates's eyes trailed after the two soldiers, watching like a hawk as they deposited their loads in the pit. "Wasn't that when you first met the Doctor?" 

"It was sir, yes. The Brigadier had met him before though." Benton looked towards the door of the storeroom, rather drawn to the place. There was no telling what might lurk inside, and he was quite tempted to get a proper look, before whatever relics lay inside were consigned to the fire. Yates seemed to read his mind. 

"Want to take a look? We can inspect things just as well from in there as out here." 

"Couldn't hurt." Letting Yates take the lead, Benton followed on, stepping into the old, converted stable through the wide flung doors. They were not the originals, which had been replaced by thick, reinforced metal, but most of the interior of the building was unchanged. Stout stone walls, with low, heavy wooden beams, conspired to minimise the lighting, and what few windows there were had been shuttered to ensure secrecy. The piles of stored jumble were high enough to bury most of the windows anyway, and the only light was from the door. The pair moved further into the room, past broken rifles, pillaged for any possible scrap of intelligence, and a neatly stacked pile of Dalek sucker arms. Benton picked up one of the latter, and turned it over in his hands. 

"I'll be happy if I never see one of these on the move again. Same goes for a lot of this stuff." 

"I'm inclined to agree." Yates picked up a grimy plastic doll that bore a decidedly unfriendly expression. "I think I might chuck this on the fire myself. I've never looked at plastic quite the same way again." 

"What did we keep that for?" Benton took the doll, turning it over in his hands. "Nothing here we can learn from, surely?" 

"I suppose if it starts running about trying to throttle people again, we'll know that the Nestenes are back." Yates turned away, wandering over towards the far side of the room, where the stored relics were still piled high. The dust was thicker there, undisturbed for quite some time, and the chatter of soldiers outside was further away, faded by distance and the thick stone walls. Keeping pace with the captain, Benton felt a sudden yearning for the sun. It might have been mocking him with its laziness earlier, but it was decidedly preferable to a dimly lit room full of alien ghosts. A shadow moved somewhere to his left, and he almost jumped. 

"Nervous, Benton?" asked Yates. Benton blushed a deep red, and was momentarily grateful for the gloom. At least it hid his embarrassment. 

"No sir," he said. All the same, he could not help but send his eyes roaming back over the piles of junk to his left. What was it that he had seen? It had looked like something moving, but that was hardly likely in this dead place. Turning, he took a few steps in the direction of the shadow, or where he thought it had been – and in that same moment there came a noise. Scratching, scrabbling, like fingers searching for purchase, or something scuttling across the floor. Beside him Yates had already drawn his revolver. 

"Do you see anything?" he asked, voice hushed to a whisper. Benton shook his head. They edged forward together, fanning out slightly, and Benton's hands closed around a weapon of his own – a chunk of metal that would make an effective club. Perhaps the sound was some animal, perhaps it was a spy, or perhaps it was one of their own men, lurking somewhere in the shadows. It didn't matter. Benton and Yates were UNIT. They had long ago learned that nothing was to be underestimated. Slightly ahead and to Benton's right, Yates was reaching out a hand, ready to knock a pile of boxes to one side. 

"Ex." Was it a voice? It sounded more like a cough; perhaps an engine trying to start. "Ext. Ext. Ext." It struck a chord, and the meaning of it became clear to Benton just as he saw a similar understanding dawning in Yates's eyes. Just as, from somewhere behind the boxes, the voice coughed its way back to life. "Exter – Exterm – Exterminate!" 

"Back!" yelled Yates, already running. He grabbed Benton's arm, pushing him ahead, hurrying him back out into the daylight. It was not as though the sergeant needed the encouragement. Behind them came a sudden, dreadful clattering, as boxes and metal and a thousand other things besides toppled over. Outside, the soldiers looked their way in amazement. 

"Battle stations!" roared Benton, without giving any of them the chance to ask questions. They reacted instinctively, to his relief, spreading out and dashing for cover. He was sizing things up as they ran, but it was not a happy reckoning. Yates's revolver was the only true weapon that he could see, and for himself he had a penknife and his makeshift cosh, neither of which was likely to be of use. For that matter, nor was the revolver. Exchanging a worried look with the captain, he peered carefully around the corner of the stable, and curled his fingers more tightly around the chunk of metal. What he saw made him freeze in place, and almost caused him to drop the club to the ground. 

It moved cautiously into the daylight, unsteady on its wheels, like a human wary of legs long unused. A Dalek, and yet at the same time not. The familiar domed head piece was missing, and in its place, connected by a twisted corona of salvaged wiring, was the head and one arm of a Cyberman. The huge metal hand snatched at thin air, and the blackened and broken shoulder joint of the other, missing arm, jerked in unison. Jammed into one of the Cyberman's eye sockets was a Dalek eyestalk, a grotesque appendage like some gruesome murder weapon skewering its victim. It moved awkwardly as the Cyber-head turned left and right, all too obviously scanning the terrain. The Dalek gun was broken, but a Sea Devil weapon had been fixed to the end of the sucker arm, and a battered laser rifle of uncertain origin hung within the tangle of connective wiring about the head; a gigantic insect, splayed in a technicolor web. Benton, his usual unflappability deserting him, gasped out loud. It took an effort not to immediately back away. 

"What in hell...?" he asked of nobody in particular. Yates, beside him, was looking grim. 

"Some sort of patchwork... thing. I would have sworn that nothing went into that room that wasn't dead." 

"Half a Dalek and less than half of a Cyberman? They damned well should be dead." Benton hefted his metal club, painfully aware of how useless it was going to be. "It looks a bit wobbly though. Maybe it won't put up too much of a fight?" As though in answer the creature spun, clearly zeroing in on their voices. The gun enmeshed in the wiring, and the Sea Devil gun on the sucker arm, fired at the same instant, and Yates and Benton dived out of the way just in time. A crate near to where they had been standing burst into flame, and smoke gusted upward from the ground. Yates smiled humourlessly. 

"You were saying?" 

"That we're in trouble." Scrambling around a corner, Benton looked at his watch. The Brigadier had taken most of the men with him, and they would be miles away by now. The handful of soldiers left on the base were scattered, and woefully under-equipped. UNIT had very little weaponry that was effective against either Daleks or Cybermen, and what they did have was more than likely on its way across country with the Brigadier. He was the one going to face an unknown threat after all. Yates and Benton had been supposed to be dealing with nothing more deadly than scrap metal. 

"Do we call for help?" he asked. Yates looked at his own watch, clearly doing his own calculating of distances and times. 

"We'd be fools not to. We can't sit here and wait for them to get back, though. They've been gone too long for that." 

"What do you want to do?" 

"Make sure that that thing can't leave the base." Yates met his gaze, each of them seeing their own resolve, and their reservations, echoed in the other's eyes. "If we can't destroy it, we've got to contain it." 

"Yes sir." Benton peered cautiously around the edge of the building. The creature was turning in a jerky circle, its sensors no doubt searching out its enemies. "Where did those guards go?" 

"Out of sight, hopefully." Mike was frowning. "They must have been armed, though. Rather better than we are." 

"Standard issue assault rifles for guard duty. They'd have put them down to shift the junk, but they can't be too far away." The Dalek creature began to turn their way, and they both jerked back around the corner. "Did you see them anywhere?" 

"Not that I remember, no." Mike regarded his own gun sourly. "Which leaves us with one revolver, and one..." He eyed Benton's club. "Is that a chair leg?" 

"If it is, it's an alien chair leg. I'm trying to hope that'll make a difference." He pulled his penknife from his pocket, and held it up with a show of good cheer. "I've got this as well." 

"Keep it handy. I suppose we might make use of the tin-opener." Yates looked carefully around the corner again. "Okay. We need to reach a radio, we need to contain that thing, and we need to warn the others on the base." His demeanour was changing, the new responsibility of the situation taking hold. "We'll have to split up. I'll get our four men here together, and form a defensive line. You get to the radio room. Call the Brigadier and tell them to do a one-eighty." 

"Yes sir." Benton was already visualising the best route. He ought to be able to make it without showing himself to the enemy. All the same, he didn't like the idea of leaving. 

"Get going, Benton." Mike's voice brooked no argument, and Benton answered with a curt nod. He might not like to leave, but there was a lot more at stake here than his own feelings. Without any further hesitation, he rolled up into a crouching run, and raced for the back of the nearest building. With luck he could get to the radio room and back in less than five minutes. He could only hope that five minutes wouldn't be too long. 

**********

Left alone, Mike peered cautiously back around the wall. The creature was looking the other way, and he took the opportunity to check his gun. There was always the slim possibility that a lucky shot would deal with the thing – clearly it was in far from perfect condition. Mentally he sized it up, considering his options. The wires that spouted between the Cyber-head and the Dalek body seemed a likely weakness, but no easy shot with a gun. The Sea Devil weapon and the suspended rifle might be the best targets – if only he had something better than a revolver. He needed a rifle, and preferably more than one. By concentrating their fire, he and the guards would stand a far better chance. He was trying to decide on the best way to locate them when the Dalek began to move. Yates muttered under his breath. He couldn't let the thing wander about the base; or worse, off it. It had to be contained here. With little option – and considerably less optimism – he rose to his feet and stepped out around the corner. 

Up ahead, the creature gave no sign that it had heard him. Instead it moved on, its head turning as it did so. Mike began to follow it, very slowly, very quietly, on the look out for the guards all the while. It was vital they regroup and plot some sort of defence. Only then did he realise why the creature had moved. It had seen something. On the other side of the fire pit, half hidden by the heat haze, were two of the guards. They were crouched low, behind some shapeless and indistinct piece of cover; caught with no avenue of retreat. A moment after Mike realised what the Dalek had seen, the soldiers realised it as well. 

"Hold your ground..." breathed Mike. He raised his revolver, although he knew all too well that it would do no good. "Hold your ground..." If they remembered their training, they might stand a chance. If they fired together, chose their target well... But it was hopeless. Both soldiers aimed their rifles together, but the Dalek, reacting with a speed that belied its patchy condition, beat them to the trigger. It fired only once. The laser beam from its own, pilfered rifle scattered into a maelstrom of superheated light as it hit the smoke above the pit; painting a fierce red glow that hid the soldiers' final fate. Mike heard a single, tortured scream, and then silence. Almost immediately the creature began to turn around. 

Trapped out in the open, Mike pointed his revolver at the metal head. If he could hit that protruding eyestalk, he might cause some kind of damage. He might be able to run for cover inside the store room, even if the idea of being cornered in there made his blood turn cold. Revolver gripped tightly in both hands, he fired once, twice, three times, each shot glancing harmlessly off the stalk. Unharmed, the creature stopped, and its doctored sucker arm raised the Sea Devil gun. 

"Exterminate!" barked a voice neither truly Dalek nor Cyberman. Emptying his pistol at the round, torch-like gun, Mike dived aside. Colliding with the storeroom wall, he rolled to his feet, and in a flurry of desperate half thoughts, grabbed the first thing that came to hand. It was a wooden crate, no doubt abandoned by the soldiers on its way to the fire pit. Mike hurled it, at the same moment making a run for the store room door. He heard a burst of laser fire behind him, and a shower of a neon sparks rained down as he skidded into the gloom of the old stable. His uniform smouldered, and he could smell his hair beginning to singe. 

"You will be exterminated!" Unscathed by his hopeless attempts to do battle, the creature rolled forward. Mike looked wildly around for something to use as a weapon, only a little surprised to see the two remaining soldiers from his bonfire detail crouching in the shadows nearby. If he had hoped that they would help to bolster his defences, however, he was sorely mistaken. 

"It's coming," hissed one, either trying to be quiet or all but robbed of his voice by fear. "We were hiding, but now it'll find us. You've made it angry!" 

"It doesn't need to get angry. It's a Dalek." Another blast of laser fire brought down part of the lintel, and Mike looked around again for a weapon. "Or most of one at any rate. Are either of you two armed?" 

"Weapons aren't any good against Daleks!" The soldier was pressing himself back into the shadows, his wide, terrified eyes almost all that Mike could clearly see of him. "Why did you have to lead it in here?" 

"Keep your voice down, Riley. Don't let's give it the advantage." The second soldier looked back to Mike. "We saw Hendon and Connors get hit, sir. What happened to Sergeant Benton?" 

"He went to sound the alarm. By now the Brigadier should be on his way back." Mike made it sound as encouraging as he could. It didn't work. Beyond the door, the creature had stopped, likely wary of advancing into the confined space. Instead it seemed to consider the options, then fired its rifle through the doorway. The blast incinerated a pair of wooden crates – and a small column of flame began eating its way up the wooden beams in the wall. 

"Damn." Mike pulled off his jacket and attacked the fire, but it had started with too much of a height advantage. Already it was reaching towards the roof beams, the dry wood catching with frightening speed. "Quickly you two! Grab something and help me to fight this!" 

"What's the point?" The first soldier was staring at the flames, his eyes now so wide and round that Mike could see the growing fire shining back out of them. "It's going to get us anyway, isn't it." 

"Sit down and keep quiet." The second guard made a grab for him, but Riley pulled away, out into the middle of the room. The fire seemed to have panicked him as much as had the Dalek, and he seemed hypnotised by it, the cover of the shadows forgotten. 

"Get back here!" ordered Mike, but it was a half-hearted command. He could not spare the time to give the soldier his full attention – not with a fire to fight that was rapidly growing beyond hope of control. 

"Riley!" It was a sharp warning, the second guard's voice as taut and dry as a gunshot. Mike turned, in time to see the young soldier silhouetted against the brightening daylight outside. He made a perfect target, framed by the doorway, with the flames to highlight his outline – and clearly the Dalek thought so too. One blast of the Sea Devil gun sent the panicked man reeling, and his body collapsed into a heap. 

"Riley!" The second soldier started towards the smouldering corpse, reaching out in search of a pulse. Too far away to stop him, Yates shouted at him to stay back. Three men in barely as many minutes was far too many. He could not afford to lose a fourth. The soldier did stop, pulling back immediately, but it was not enough. The fire, spreading out across the ceiling, was lighting up the stable's formerly dark interior, revealing its secrets to the Dalek outside. Perhaps it no longer saw reason for caution; perhaps it could not resist such an easy target. Slowly it rolled forwards into the doorway. The soldier froze like a startled rabbit, and Yates, mind working at top speed, grabbed at the only chance for either of them. Letting the jacket in his hands catch fire, he ran, as low against the crates as he could, swinging the flaming material at the Dalek's rather makeshift eye. It lurched back away from the doors, but the soldier chose the wrong moment to react. Far too soon he made his break for freedom, and in his haste he knocked against the metal casing. The reaction was instantaneous. From within the shell, at the junction of Dalek body and Cyberman head, a riot of tentacles emerged. They lashed the air, grey-green and glossy, like some demonic cephalopod, wrapping themselves around the solder's neck. Yates snatched up the nearest available weapon, but the wet crack of breaking bone told him that he was too late. He swung the weapon anyway – nothing but a chunk of unidentifiable plastic – sending the tentacles slithering away back out of sight. Shaking its head to dislodge the burning jacket, the Dalek fell back a little further, its twin guns already coming to bear upon Mike. 

"Get down!" The voice was Benton's, but Yates gave no thought to the how or the why or the where. He merely flung himself to one side, hitting the ground hard, just as Benton opened fire. The magnificent, rattling sound of automatic gunfire, peppered with hammering ricochets, filled the air. Mike took advantage, fumbling for a handful of bullets, and hastily reloading his revolver. Slapping the chamber shut again in record time, he fired from where he lay, raining the metal head with shots. It half turned towards him, then back to Benton, swinging its laser rifle around. 

"Fall back!" ordered Yates, and Benton, with one last, ferocious volley, obeyed. He darted around the corner of the building, and Mike, scrambling to his feet as the Dalek pursued the sergeant, ran the other way. He met Benton behind the building – the very same storeroom that was now a flaming ruin – and the pair of them dived for cover behind an old, metal trough. 

"You have remarkable timing, Benton," said Yates. The sergeant offered him a characteristically cheerful smile. 

"Thank you sir." He held out a second assault rifle, the twin of his own. "I have other qualities too." 

"You certainly do." Mike took the proffered weapon with more gratitude than he had felt in a long while. "What's the situation?" 

"The Brigadier's on his way back. Our boys are setting up a secure perimeter. Nothing is getting into or out of this base, sir, not in a hurry." 

"Good man," Mike took a moment to peer over the trough. "You should probably have stayed with them." 

"Maybe. I never was all that good at tactical thinking." They shared a smile, before Benton joined Mike looking over the trough. "Speaking of which. Any ideas?" 

"Keep it occupied. Don't die." Mike checked the load in his rifle. "And possibly find some cover that isn't burning down." 

"Yes sir, about that. Do I want to ask what happened?" 

"Probably not." The Dalek was edging into view, moving with a caution that Yates could sympathise with. "It's compromised. It's not as strong as either a normal Dalek or a Cyberman, and I suspect its sight isn't as good as it should be. It was in good enough shape to kill the others though." 

"So we're it then?" Benton's smile was thin, but his eyes were bright. "You were right, I shouldn't have come back." 

"Precisely." Mike checked once more on the enemy's progress. "Right. Count of three, and then I'll start shooting. Make for the front of the building. We spread out, and try to catch it in a crossfire. Aim for its weapons first." 

"Yes sir." Benton readied himself to run, as Yates signalled the countdown. As a third finger rose, he ran, and in the same moment Mike rose up as well, offering the sergeant the best cover that he could. He aimed for the eyestalk, the best distraction he could think of, then ran hell for leather after Benton. The sergeant had found some cover behind a pair of crates, although as a stronghold it was sadly lacking. Mike threw himself behind a fallen chimney stack, which was by no means any better. 

"Ex-ter-min-ate!" The Dalek came trundling around the corner mere seconds later, its purloined Cyber-arm waving blindly in the air. Benton aimed a shot at it, which ricocheted off and smashed a nearby window. It was enough to attract the creature's attention, and it swung to face him, allowing him a perfect shot at the Sea Devil gun – which chose that moment to aim a blast directly at him. He was forced to throw himself to the ground, and Yates took up the slack. Aiming for the barrel of the laser rifle, he managed a sustained burst, before the Dalek swung around and fired back. A section of chimney stack disappeared, and Mike had to roll quickly aside. 

"Exterminate!" It was coming towards him, and a second blast vaporised another good sized chunk of his cover. There was still Benton to reckon with however, and the sergeant rose up again, taking up where Mike had left off. He all but emptied his rifle, aiming for the deadly laser gun – and was rewarded by a puff of smoke. The Dalek turned; there was a flash from the rifle as it clearly attempted to fire; and in a shower of sparks it disintegrated. 

"You will be exterminated!" Sounding almost enraged, the Dalek started back towards him, and the deadly Sea Devil gun fired again. Benton only just moved in time, the ground where he had been standing fused into glass by the heat of the blast. Again Yates rose up, their game of tag beginning to feel as though it might just bear fruit. He fired once again at the head – but this time the Dalek did not turn. Perhaps it had realised what they were up to. Perhaps it had worked out a strategy of its own. Whatever its thinking, it bore down on Benton, and the Sea Devil gun flashed again and again. 

"Hey! Dalek!" Scrambling over what little remained of the chimney stack, Mike fired once more, working his way around until he could aim for the eyestalk. He was out in the open now, but the Dalek was still heading for Benton, the wildly clutching Cyber-hand batting sporadically at the crates that sheltered him, even as the Sea Devil gun was setting them ablaze. Again and again Mike fired at the eyestalk, and as it turned finally towards him, Benton gave the burning crates a shove. They tumbled down onto the Dalek, scarcely a threat, but distraction enough for the pair to take advantage. Separating once again, doing their best never to stay still, they concentrated their fire on the Sea Devil gun. It fired once more, a red hot blast that disintegrated Mike's rifle in a searing flash – then it exploded in a ball of flame. Mike stumbled, fingers blistering, eyes filled with the negative image of his rifle, as though it were burned into his brain. 

"Look out sir!" It was Benton's voice, but Mike, more than half-blinded, could not see the threat. The Dalek, sensing weakness like any predator, was moving in for the kill, snatching metal hand swinging to-and-fro. It was clumsy, but as a club it was more than effective. A looming, indistinct shape filled Mike's damaged vision, and he backed sharply away, feeling a gust of air rush by him as the metal arm flailed in a near miss – then suddenly the hand was swinging back, snatching at the air right in front of his face. He ducked, heard gunfire, stumbled aside – and received a blow to the shoulder that sent him flying. He hit the ground hard, but the erratic metal fist had quite possibly saved his life. Out of range now, he scrambled aside and beat a hasty retreat. A plan was forming in his mind, built more of hope than of certainty. One step, two, three – where was it? It had to be here somewhere – four, five – and there at last was the heat of the fire pit, rolling in waves across his back. 

"Three o'clock!" Benton's voice again. Yates ducked just in time, and the metal fist passed harmlessly over his head. A moment later he heard footsteps, and a half-obscured blur swam into shape at his right side. 

"It's unarmed," said Benton, pulling him back out of the way of another wild punch. "Do we ask it to surrender?" 

"You're welcome to try." Yates rubbed at his eyes, anxious to clear his vision. "Aim for the eyestalk again." 

"Sorry sir. Out of bullets. I must have dropped the spare clip somewhere with all that diving about." 

"Wonderful." They ducked together, the heat from the pit growing more intense as they neared its edge. Benton, ever cheerful, swung his empty rifle like a club. 

"It can't shoot at us either though. All we have to do is stay out of its way." By way of answer, the grabbing arm snatched the rifle from his hand, all but dislocating his shoulder in the process. It swung the weapon back at him, causing him to duck sharply aside – and nearly lose his footing at the edge of the pit. 

"Careful!" Steadying him as best he could with burnt hands and a battered shoulder, Yates focused his blurred eyes on the creature's neck. He was remembering the tentacles, wary of a reappearance. "Don't underestimate it. Just try to contain it." 

"Easier said than done." Benton pulled him back as the gun swung again, but the Dalek was following, moving faster now than before. The caution it had exhibited earlier had gone, swallowed up in its obvious anger. Avoiding it was growing harder all the while. The stolen rifle flailed at them again, and again Benton had to pull Yates out of the way. 

"Behind it," he said suddenly, as they scrambled aside yet again. "It can't reach us there. We might be able to push it over the edge." But the Dalek, no doubt hearing him, whirled to prevent the manoeuvre, protecting its rear. Mike shook his head. 

"Not that simple," he said. "The mutant is still dangerous. Don't forget, these things aren't just shells. They have a driver." 

"Yes, but – duck!" They ducked, quickly. When Benton spoke again he sounded out of breath. "We just have to—" He was cut off, abruptly, with a loud grunt. The gun, wheeling back unexpectedly, had caught him hard across the chest. It was Mike's turn now to grab him, hauling him out of the way as best he could when he could barely even see which way to move. 

"Benton?" 

"Fine sir." He clearly was not. "Sorry. Lucky blow. Damn." 

"Move!" As the indistinct shape of the Dalek bore down on them from out of the mass of bright lights still obscuring Mike's vision, the captain shoved Benton aside. There was a sharp gasp, and the sergeant stumbled, clearly in pain. Manoeuvring, already an issue, had apparently just become impossible. As the rifle lashed the air again and again, Mike took a wild chance, and grabbed hold of the sucker arm. The strength of the thing was incredible – with all the force that he could muster it was all that he could do just to hang on. The rifle swung wildly, but it could not reach him. Staying low, Benton joined him a moment later. 

"Watch out for the mutant," Yates warned, just as the Cyber-head swung around one hundred and eighty degrees, the gruesome, skewering eyestalk glaring down at them. A single tentacle, grey-green and unearthly, hung down out of the dark slit of the mouth. 

"Under attack!" bellowed the Dalek, demanding assistance from its long gone regiment. "Under attack!" Its broken gun arm sparked and vibrated, and the static electricity field of the shell powered up in defence. Yates and Benton clung grimly on, and together – both injured, both almost as battered as the Dalek – they began to haul the creature around, pushing it slowly, inexorably towards the edge of the crackling pit. 

"Keep going!" hissed Yates, in an attempt at encouragement. His shoulder seemed on fire, but his vision at last was improving. Benton, with a bruised disaster for a rib cage, merely nodded his head in breathless answer. Another inch further, another – and with a sound like a pistol shot, the mutant erupted from within. The tentacles reached for the nearest neck, and as Benton dodged aside, grabbed him instead by the arm, wrapping around him with a grip like a python. He struggled, and the Dalek casing began to wobble at the edge of the pit. 

"Benton!" Forced now to try to save the Dalek from falling, Mike dug in his heels, but gravity, or perhaps the Dalek itself, had other ideas. Yates could feel the earth at the pit's edge give way, could feel the casing move ever closer to the point of no return, with Benton in its multiple-armed grip. The metal arm was still lashing, the rifle swinging now with ever increasing accuracy, and Yates stared up at the Cyber-head with dawning realisation. It wasn't just a Dalek. That Cyber-head, cannibalised by the Dalek mutant, still had some control of its own. Even as the mutant slithered free of the casing, the shell was not left defenceless. With an electric charge still building in the shell, with his feet losing purchase, Mike did the only thing that he could think of and let go, grabbing instead for the mutant. The shell, with the lethal speed of a striking snake, whirled around towards him, and Mike used its own momentum against it. As he clung grimly on to the mutant, the spinning of the shell tore its erstwhile pilot loose, and Mike, Benton and the writhing mutant fell together to the ground. Still flailing, still teetering on the pit's crumbling rim, the Cyber-Dalek conglomeration wobbled one last time, before disappearing silently over the edge. There was no time to watch it burn. Benton had been saved from falling, but he was still grappling with the mutant, and its tentacles were now reaching for his neck. Mike fought for a better grip upon it, pulling with all that remained of his strength, even as another of the tentacles closed like a vice around his wrist. 

"Knife... captain.. penknife!" Benton's free hand was struggling to protect his throat, his trapped arm now a livid white. Mike, his own good arm imprisoned, struggled desperately with the wounded one, his burnt fingers finally snagging on the sergeant's pocket – and then on the knife inside. It was an effort to prise the blade open, the hinge stiff, and his fingers uncooperative; but it was no effort at all to drive it deep into the mutant's pulsing form. The tentacles did not let go – not with the first stab, or the second, nor even with the third. Only when Mike's hand, and the ground around them, was thick with grey-green blood, did the creature's grip finally relax, and with grim satisfaction, Benton hurled the body into the pit. They heard the crackle of its landing, and it was all that Yates could do to haul himself the few inches to check that it, and its metal partner, were truly gone. He flopped down then on his back, staring up at the still rising sun. 

"You all right, Benton?" he asked. The sergeant, no longer quite as cheerful as usual, let out a long, relieved sigh. 

"Yes sir. Nothing a good rest won't cure. You?" 

"Fine." Mike was thinking, oddly, of breakfast. He never had got to eat that bacon sandwich. Right now though, he could not be bothered to move at all. "But Benton?" 

"Yes sir?" 

"Next time you nearly get yourself hauled into a fire pit by an angry alien mutant..." 

"I'm on my own?" 

"Yes. 'Fraid so." 

"All right sir." The sergeant's sense of humour was clearly returning, and Mike could hear it once again in his voice. "That sounds fair enough."

 

The End


End file.
